


Third Time's (Not) The Charm

by OctarineSparks



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humour, Silly short thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 01:56:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1571789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's dying. Death is busy. Johnlock if you have your spiritual goggles on. Are those a thing?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's (Not) The Charm

Sherlock is dying again. It's not right. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. 

WE MEET AGAIN, MR HOLMES. 

"Piss off, will you?" Sherlock mutters to the robed figure beside him. 

Death sighs, and it chills Sherlock to the core. 

JUST ONCE, I WANT TO MEET SOMEONE WHO IS PLEASED TO SEE ME. 

"I wouldn't hold your breath," Sherlock replies, struggling to sit up against the wall of the warehouse. 

INDEED, I CANNOT. 

Sherlock laughs bitterly, a hand pressed to the wound in his side. 

"You're not even real," he mutters, but darkness is crowding the edge of his vision. 

I'M AFRAID THERE IS NO OTHER AS REAL AS I. Death replies with a airy tone, or as airy as He can manage. 

"Well, the certainty of you, yes," Sherlock agrees. "But not _you_."

PERHAPS NOT SO MUCH HERE AS OTHER DIMENSIONS, BUT I AM IN ALL THINGS IN THE END. 

Sherlock cannot reply. He can see a faint blue glow all around him. He thinks it's his soul, but he doesn't believe in such things. 

DON'T FIGHT IT, Death says in a bored tone. I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY. 

"Yes you do," Sherlock retorts, and the effort causes a fresh stab of pain to shoot through him. 

Death bows His head in acknowledgment. FAIR ENOUGH. BUT YOU'RE ONLY MAKING IT WORSE FOR YOURSELF. 

"How much worse can it get?" Sherlock snaps. 

Death raises His bony finger to His cheek and makes an attempt at scratching it. It's the little things, He's sure, but the sound it elicits is like nails on a chalkboard. 

THIS IS THE THIRD TIME NOW, MR HOLMES, AND IF THERE IS ONE THING I CANNOT STAND IT IS A MISSED APPOINTMENT. 

"So why are you here? Why keep showing up if my death isn't certain?"

Death shrugs with glacial slowness. YOU INTEREST ME. 

"I interest a lot of-" Sherlock's breath hitches in his chest. The pain is fading, as is his life. "People," he finishes with difficulty. 

THERE IS A WIZARD I MUST INTRODUCE YOU TO. IF I CAN EVER BLOODY FIND HIM. 

Sherlock ignores this. He really doesn't have time to decode all the fevered ramblings of what might just be a figment of his imagination. 

"I'm not going to die," he says quietly. 

YES YOU ARE. 

"Perhaps. But not today."

Sherlock closes his eyes and waits for the faint pounding of footsteps on concrete to reach him. 

OH, BUGGER, Death complains, watching a panic stricken John Watson fall at the detective's side. He rummages in his cloak and pulls out an hour glass. This one is made of dark oak, and there is still plenty of sand in the top bulb. Death frowns, which is no mean feat for someone without facial muscles, and places John's life timer back among the folds of his robe. 

Sherlock doesn't have a life timer, not anymore. Not since that sodding doctor showed up. There one day, gone the next, and yet somehow Dr. Watson's own timer had become bigger, with perhaps just a little more sand. Death tries not to think too hard about what that means. It's too early in the century for that metaphysical bullshit. 

He clears his throat like a gunshot, and takes up his scythe. 

UNTIL NEXT TIME, MR HOLMES.


End file.
